


Creature Comforts

by CoffeeAndTin



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Art to be added soon, Big Bang Challenge, Blood, First Kiss, M/M, Nothing incredibly graphic though, Some pining, Supernatural Elements, broadly drawn supernatural au, creature violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-12 07:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15990134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeAndTin/pseuds/CoffeeAndTin
Summary: Goodnight hated those parties.





	Creature Comforts

**Author's Note:**

> This is my project for the Magnificent Seven 2018 Big Bang! Or, the story of how Goodnight Robicheaux accidentally became a werewolf rescue. (Art will be added soon!)

“I need help,” Sam had said.  
Not ‘I could use some help, Goody,’ not ‘I’d like your input.’ Nothing like most of the times Sam Chisolm had enlisted his help. Goodnight had taken note of those little distinctions that had cropped up over the course of their friendship, and collaborative efforts. Whatever Sam was after, Goodnight knew it had nothing to do with any of the cases he was working. It was personal. Goodnight had entertained notions of telling Sam "no." But it was rare that Sam expressed an actual need for something. Goodnight would not, otherwise, have procured an invitation to the party they were rapidly approaching.  
“You good?”  
Goodnight ran a hand over his beard, and wondered if he should have shaved it, after all.  
“Yeah,” he said as one corner of his mouth hitched upward. “You’re the best date I’ve had in months.”  
Sam clapped Goodnight on the shoulder and laughed.  
“For you sake, Goody, I’m very sorry to hear that.”  
Their amiable chuckles continued until they found themselves at the door. It groaned open, and they were ushered in. The art, the furniture, the light fixtures, the finery of the guests; everything bespoke wealth. These parties had been a former indulgence, but now they were taxing. As Sam parted from his company in search of his quarry, Goodnight tried not to imagine what deals their host had made to gain such prosperity; what things Jordy McTeigue had sacrificed.  
Keeping Sam in his periphery, Goodnight wandered through the crowd, ignoring the recognition he saw in the eyes of his fellow guests.  
_Cloying,_ Goodnight decided. That was the word. His tailored, gray suit fit him the way it should, but it was easy to imagine its seams were constricting him. Or, perhaps it was the thick scents of of flowers, and perfumes and colognes that were so suffocating. _More like a funeral._  
He wondered when he’d become such a grim, unsociable creature.  
A glass of champagne found its way into his hand as he shuffled to a relatively unoccupied space. He was intercepted by a woman whose name he had forgotten, though he was almost certain it started with a B. The pale blue dress she wore had doubtlessly been selected to match her eyes. She wore her long, dark hair down. It was styled enough to be fashionable. She was not conventionally pretty, but she was certainly handsome.  
“How have you been?” she asked. “What have you been up to?”  
Goodnight gave a non committal nod and resigned himself to engaging in all the pleasantries he’d been dreading.  
_Abigail,_ he remembered. It didn’t start with a B at all, but Goodnight mentally cheered when he remembered her name. He was newly deflated, however, when he realized she was looking at him with expectation. Her apparent lack of pretension was refreshing, but the cold hunger and curiosity in her gaze was all too familiar.  
“Good. Good,” he said with a polite smile. “Just managing my investments.  
It wasn’t a lie, but it was not what Abigail wanted to hear. She wanted to hear about grimoires, and summonings; about deep secrets, and infernal things. Hearing that the only book he’d thought about writing was something along the lines of historical fiction would likely have been more disappointing, if marginally more entertaining, than hearing him prattle about his own fortune.  
At least this woman didn’t seem to be one of the grinning sycophants he often found at these parties. Not entirely, anyway.  
“Oh,” she said.  
It was a poor attempt at hiding her disappointment, but at least she tried.  
Abigail chatted about her online store, and about how his last book still sold steadily on it; and how she and the rest of her social circle had been wondering about him, and why he’d been absent for so long. Goodnight kept his answers vague, and nodded in the appropriate places in the conversation. If memories of the thing that had dogged his heart and mind pressed him particularly hard, he smiled that much more genially. Much to Goodnight’s relief, Abigail’s conversational well ran dry. She excused herself and disappeared into the crowd.  
Goodnight looked around the room, feeling desolate among the many. Symphonic classics played in the background. Once more, Goodnight’s eyes lit on Sam, who was standing across the room, talking to the host of the not-so-humble gala. McTeigue's blond hair was bound at the nape of his neck. The scar that ran from his right brow, over his eye, and half way down his cheek was hidden only slightly by a pair of glasses. Goodnight knew he liked to lead people to believe the scar was obtained during a dangerous ritual, but Goodnight had it on good authority that it had been inflicted by something as mundane as a car accident.  
There was a small part of Goodnight that rejoiced to see the way one of McTeigue’s arms was crossed over his belly. It was an attempt at affecting a casual mein, but Goodnight recognized it for what it was: an instinctive, protective measure. He’d seen Sam have that effect on people before he became what he was. Judging by the furtive, sidelong glances Sam received, Goodnight guessed most would be content to satisfy themselves with speculation. He was uncertain if any of that speculation, no matter how wild, would come close to guessing what resided within Sam. Goodnight was one of very few people who knew.  
The thought coaxed a small, sardonic smile onto Goodnight’s lips, and the glances of enmity Sam and McTeigue gave each other did not escape Goodnight’s notice. Goodnight downed the rest of his champagne, and was about to search out something stronger when McTeigue broke conversation with Sam and announced that the evening’s festivities would begin; and would everyone please make their way to the back lawn?  
McTeigue’s voice was soft, and yet it wound its way through the crowd. His calm tone was reasonable. It was warm, even.  
_Practiced,_ Goodnight surmised.  
He handed his glass off to an attendant before following along with his fellow guests, amid talk of werewolves, and transformations. His steps came close to faltering. He knew little enough about lycanthropy beyond the assertions werewolves changed on the nights of the month the moon was fullest. And if Goodnight wasn’t mistaken, those nights had very recently passed, and the moon had only just begun to wane.  
Goodnight wondered what McTeigue had been up to during his absence from their exclusive, little community. For all of his eruditions, McTeigue was a skilled practitioner.  
They were shepherded out back. The area could have been considered more of a courtyard than a lawn. It was well lit. The shrubbery was neatly trimmed. No blade of grass was out of place.  
Then Goodnight felt the energy given off by a spell. It could be easily ignored by most, but years of regrettable practice made the thrum of enchantment utterly recognizable to him. It was a force, a boundary. Goodnight had only to look ahead to see what it contained.  
In the center of that space stood two men, both clad in black slacks, and starched, white dress shirts. Both were in their bare feet. That’s where the similarities ended, though. One man was tall and broad, with mousy hair. He watched the gathering crowd, his gaze expectant. The other man was hanging back. He scanned the crowd, watchful, but seemingly unimpressed. His black hair was bound back in a loose bun, but one lock hadn’t been so easily subdued, and it fell over one of his high cheekbones.  
_Striking._  
Goodnight decided that word wasn’t an overstatement. He began to consider what the man’s nationality might be; but before he could think too thoroughly on the subject, McTeigue’s voice settled over the yard.  
“Good evening. Thank you all for coming this evening. Feel free to cheer, turn way, bet. Whatever you wish. But I hope enjoy the performance of my returning champion, and...” he paused, as though he were searching for the right words. “...my newly acquired import.”  
Murmurs of approval rose and McTeigue gave a magnanimous nod.  
“Let’s begin.”  
McTeigue closed his eyes and raised his hands. The ugly benediction made Goodnight hold his breath. Words and phrases in a long-dead Latin tongue reached Goodnight’s ears. The recitation pleaded for control, change, and violence. And blood.  
_This is wrong,_ Goodnight thought. _I shouldn’t be here._  
He felt idiotic, manic laughter bubbling up within him. That would have been just as undignified as weeping like a child, or scabbling backward in terror. He imagined talons scraping their way into the recesses of his mind. He wanted to run; to scream. He wanted to slam the door on every bit of knowledge he’d ever gained in regard to the unknowable. But he was fixed to the spot, watching with the rest of the crowd.  
_Goddamnit, Sam._  
The larger of the two men shed his clothing with all the enthusiasm of an overeager lover. It might have been comedic, had the action not been juxtaposed with his beatific grin. Even as the he groaned in pain, and the cords of muscle in his neck became painfully pronounced, his zealous expression made Goodnight’s gut go colder. With a bellow, the man fell to his knees as hair began to sprout out from his flesh.  
Goodnight shifted his attention to the other man, who undid the last button on his shirt before shrugging out of it. Without so much as an upward glance, he undid pants and nudged them aside just before a tremor wracked his lean body. It drove him downward, and he bowed his head. The tips of his hears became pointed, and they moved themselves higher on his head.  
Goodnight thought he saw him move his head from side to side as his body quaked, and his muscles grew taut. When a particularly vicious spasm hit him, and caused him to lift his head, Goodnight could see that his gum line had been split open, and that the resultant blood was staining nascent fangs. His toenails and fingernails also became jagged as they curved into predatory shapes. Most mesmerizing, though, was they way his breaths remained deep and even. Goodnight unconsciously matched that rhythm as he applauded the man’s willful regulation of his body, even as he was being forced to transform.  
But then his body juttered, and there were several dull pops as his body continued to contort into something else. His handsome features bunched, but he remained silent. Cole-black hair began to cover him and his respiration began to quicken.  
Goodnight hazarded a glance around the yard.  
_The arena,_ he realized.  
There was no awe, no surprise. There was what appeared to be casual interest on some of the spectator’s faces, but there was also a collective air of impatience. That set Goodnight on edge more than the feeling that he shouldn’t be watching this in the first place.  
_You did make a career out of seeing things you weren’t supposed to,_ he chided himself.  
From there, the metamorphoses accelerated. Bone and sinew reworked themselves into deadlier forms. Hair grew. Limbs lengthened, and fangs gnashed within bestial snouts. The cries of pain from the bigger man became more agonized, and far more guttural.  
The other never made a sound.  
The creatures panted as they stood on powerful legs. The end results of so violent a reshaping should not have been so beautiful.  
If anyone, for sanity’s sake, wished to convince themselves that they were seeing wolves, anything more than a passing glance would have disabused them of the notion. They were too large. They had hands where paws should have been; and though they boasted the countenances of wolves, human intellect shone in their eyes.  
In the heartbeat before the fray began, Goodnight was lost in the vision of perfectly black fur, and eyes the color of molten gold.  
The beast with the mousy coat roared, and the crowd cheered when he lunged. The smaller creature avoided the attack with ease, and took the opportunity to slice open his aggressor’s left thigh.  
Goodnight’s breath rushed out of him in something like laughter. Or perhaps he was going to be ill. He was uncertain.  
The wounded animal spun around and roared. Goodnight could feel the fury of that sound reverberate in his rib cage. As he charged again, he employed a wild, arching swipe that was dodged again. The black werewolf sought to capitalize once more on the mistake, and sank his fangs into his opponent’s right forearm. He folded his ears backward wrenched his head from side to side. The injured animal let out a high, wild yelp that served only to spur on the frenzied movement.  
In a flash of  ivory white teeth, the monstrous wolf twisted and his maw bore down, and tore into the ebony fur, and flesh of the other’s shoulder.  
Goodnight’s heart sank when the black wolf released the purchase he had found. He was thrown to the ground with an audible thud, and before he had time to recover, the soon-to-be victor of the match was on him. The crowd cheered as he pressed his clawed, left hand into the base of the smaller werewolf’s throat. Its right hand found a way to the struggling creature’s side. With a cruel, deliberate swipe, it inflicted deep wounds. The crowd’s adulation redoubled, and for the first time, Goodnight saw the way the thing’s eyes glimmered, green and hateful, in the artificial light.  
It heralded its impending triumph by tossing back its head and baying at the heavens. It was deafening, and horrible-  
-and cut short by the grotesque, wet gurgling of blood rushing out of a severed windpipe.  
In a last-ditch effort of self-preservation, the small wolf had lashed out with lethal speed, and tore into the weakest flesh that had been available to him.  
The dumbfounded silence was interrupted only by the werewolf’s pitiful, final attempts at breath, and the incantation pouring out of McTeigue’s mouth.  
The transition from wolf to human was faster, or at least it seemed that way. The remaining werewolf, who was still endowed with fangs and claws, used the latter to tear into the carcass before him. He let out a long, low growl.  
_Good for you,_ Goodnight thought as the crowd, save for himself and Sam, dispersed. There were disappointed murmurs. Their entertainment had reached an unsatisfying conclusion.  
McTeigue’s anger and embarrassment were evident, but rather than make a real show it it, he turned to Sam.  
“Take the runt,” he said before walking away.  
“You heard the man,” Sam said, without sparing a glance at McTeigue's retreating shape.  
Goodnight did not need to look at Sam to know the expression he would see on his friend’s face. It would be thoughtful, intent. The look of a man who had decided where to move a piece on a chessboard. And if that strategy involved a tattered, bleeding werewolf?  
_Shit, stranger things have happened._  
Goodnight and Sam approached with calm steps. Dark eyes watched them, but the fatigue and worry that lurked on the edges of his defiance were apparent to Goodnight. The wounds had looked bad enough on his wolfen form, but on his now entirely human body, they appeared gruesomely deep, and in desperate need of care. The werewolf sat on his haunches, but blood loss (and likely the taxing nature of his transformation), took their toll. He slumped into a seated position.  
Without due consideration of his actions, Goodnight removed his blazer and closed the distance between them. When he was met with no resistance, he put the garment over the man’s torso, affording him some dignity.  
“It’s gonna be okay,” he said.

* * *

 

“I’ll call Jack,” Sam said as he met Goodnight’s gaze in the rear view mirror. "Tell him to meet us at your place."  
Goodnight continued to apply pressure to the werewolf’s wounds as he searched his memory for associates by the name of “Jack” who would be an authority in this situation.  
Only one came to mind.  
“Jack?” Goodnight asked. “Jack Horne the werewolf hunter, Jack?”  
“Ex-werewolf hunter,” Sam corrected.  
As the vehicle wound its way toward Goodnight’s home, he recited a chorus of placating nothings to the semi-conscious man in his arms. He supposed “ex” was a significant distinction. Goodnight had only ever heard stories about the country doctor who became a scourge of supernatural creatures in general, and werewolves in particular. Even Goodnight believed they’d only been stories.

* * *

 

By the time gray morning light was filtering through the curtains, Goodnight was grateful the wing back chair he’d opted to rest in was more comfortable than it looked. He knew standing vigil wasn’t necessary. He could have retired to his own bed. After all, Jack had assured him that his impromptu house guest should be fine. Yet, Goodnight had spent the wee hours of the morning after Jack left, watching and waiting. He wondered if it would make a difference to his charge whether or not he woke alone.  
_Just in case,_ Goodnight thought. He decided it was best to err on the side of caution, and perhaps, compassion. He also decided he was too tired to sleep.  
A small sound came from the werewolf’s throat, and his head lolled to the side. Goodnight wondered if those were steps toward wakefulness, or the movements of someone still lost in dreamland. Then came a sharp, airy inhalation, and his sleep-smoothed features bunched like they had before he’d transformed.  
And there was that feeling again in Goodnight’s gut, and in his heart. The feeling that he shouldn’t be seeing this; that this man’s pain was something deeply private. Goodnight rehearsed assuagements, but ceased when his guest’s eyes slid open and roamed the room with slow, bleary motion. His left arm began to move upward, but his entire body tensed at the discovery of the IV that was there. His right hand searched out the needle, but Goodnight sprang from his seat.  
“Hey, hey, hey,” he said. His voice was rushed, but quiet as he moved to the bedside. “You might want to leave that be.”  
The man on the bed eyed him, and made to sit up, but the pain his injuries pushed him backward.  
_Nothing like a reminder that you’re still flesh and blood,_ Goodnight thought as he gave a small, sympathetic wince.  
“Hey,” Goodnight said, keeping the pitch of his voice as calm as he could. He crouched, not wanting to advance any further. “It’s okay. Just rest. You’re safe here.”  
His guest met his gaze. There was mistrust and open hostility, but no fear.  
“Goodnight’s my name-”  
“Where?” he rasped.  
“My house.”  
The werewolf brought his right hand up to his face and rubbed his eyes before putting his arm back at his side. When Goodnight saw the way he swallowed, and moved his mouth, he made a note to bring him water. Goodnight watched his eyes as he took inventory of the room, as much as he could from the flat of his back, before his eyes settled back on him.  
“Why?”  
_Good question,_ Goodnight thought. _No point in lying._  
“My friend, Sam. He was looking for information. Couldn’t get any from the man who…” Goodnight trailed off as he wondered what words to use toward the description of the man who had presumably held him captive and forced him to transform. “...the man whose party we were at…”  
Goodnight paused when he saw the wounded man’s expression darken. If Goodnight hadn’t already felt contempt for the McTeigue, he would have in that moment.  
“He won’t cross me,” Goodnight said, then added with a half-smile: “And he definitely won’t cross Sam.”  
When his smile wasn’t returned, Goodnight cleared his throat.  
“Sam thought you might know something.”  
The werewolf ran a sluggish tongue over his bottom lip as he looked up at the ceiling.  
“I’m being kept here.”  
The words were barely audible, but Goodnight though he could hear the trace of an accent. His voice was matter of fact, unsurprised. There was no expectation of altruism, and while that hurt Goodnight to hear, he staved off his misplaced guilt.  
“No, not at all,” he said as he rose and ignored the disconcerting pop in his right knee. “Not at all. Sam would be disappointed, but you’re free to go if you want. And you’re certainly welcome to stay. To heal.”  
The werewolf raised his head, and propped himself up as best he could on his right elbow. He looked down at his own body and frowned at the bandages.  
“I…”  
Goodnight took a step closer, drawn in by the miserable note of uncertainty in that one syllable. His movement earned him a warning glance.  
“I don’t know much. About what I am,” he said when Goodnight came no closer. A lock of black hair fell into his face, but he didn’t seem to notice. Rather, he watched Goodnight’s expression, perhaps waiting to see if he would find any hints of reproach there. “Never really needed to.”  
_Until now,_ Goodnight assessed. _Until someone fucked with what you thought you knew about yourself._  
Goodnight took note of the way the werewolf’s shoulder was becoming laden with tension from propping himself up.  
“Oh, I doubt that’s what Sam wanted to know about. And for a vaunted master of the occult, I am admittedly lacking in knowledge about lycanthropy. But Jack, the man who stitched you back together last night? He said that werewolves can do harm to each other, same as silver or fire.”  
Goodnight nearly launched into an explanation as to how Jack was so knowledgeable on the subject, but he thought better of it when the werewolf began to ease back onto the pillow. Goodnight felt himself relax, too.  
“I’ll be right back,” Goodnight said.  
He left, and returned several minutes later with a bottle of water.  
“I imagine you’re thirsty,” he said as he twisted off the cap.  
There was no reply, but the way he looked at the bottle told Goodnight he was parched.  
“Here,” Goodnight said as he handed over the bottle. He lingered a little closer than he might otherwise have done if he was certain his charge wasn’t going to drop the bottle. He took unhurried sips until the water was half gone. He handed the bottle back to Goodnight.  
“Thank you.”  
“You’re welcome,” Goodnight said. He moved the bottle from one hand to the other before adding, “What should I call you?”  
“Billy,” came the reply.  
It was said in a way that implied it made no difference to Billy what he was called. Goodnight was also forced to wonder whether or not the name he’d been born with.  
“Billy it is,” Goodnight said, feeling his mouth begin to form a smile. “Good to meet you.”  
He proceeded to assure Billy that he was, indeed, a guest, and that he was welcome to stay for as long as he liked. Goodnight wanted to know more about him, but he quelled his curiosity the only way he knew how: he talked. The more he talked, the more Billy seemed to sink back onto the pillow. He directed Billy’s attention to the adjoining restroom should he have need of it. He told Billy about Sam, and a few things about himself. He mentioned that Jack would return that evening to change Billy’s bandages. Goodnight made a mental note that he would soon have to change the saline bag as Jack had instructed. Then it struck Goodnight that he had been lacking as a host. He hadn’t asked Billy how he was feeling. He didn’t seem the sort to give voice to any sort of weakness, but Goodnight chided himself for making assumptions about the man he’d technically just met.  
“How’s the pain?”  
Billy looked up at him as though he were gauging the degree to which Goodnight genuinely cared. Goodnight was surprised when he answered.  
“Painful.”  
Goodnight had not expected such a blunt, honest answer, but the tightness around Billy’s eyes, and the small twitch of his lip told Goodnight that he had used such a deadpan tone in jest.  
Goodnight cracked an honest-to-god smile for the first time in what felt like months.  
And so did Billy.

 

True to his word, Jack returned. Goodnight excused himself from the examination, but returned to find Billy in fresh bandages. He was no longer sporting the IV line. Jack seemed pleased enough with his handy work when he said that Billy was healing well, though recommended more rest. Goodnight was surprised at his own relief when that information was not coupled with a pronouncement of when Billy could leave. Any questions Goodnight had about the care and feeding of werewolves (There were many.), he kept to himself. Billy would likely be a reliable source of information in regard to his own well being. Goodnight hoped. Jack declined all the hospitality Goodnight offered before he left, but Goodnight gave him his thanks and as warm a farewell as he’d been able to offer anyone in quite some time.  
What started as a gray morning proved to be an equally gray day. The late afternoon light that Goodnight often enjoyed was absent, but the patter of raindrops was no less welcome in Goodnight’s estimation. He picked up another water bottle from the kitchen, and realized he had little to offer other than drinks.  
_Your cupboards are bare, Mother Hubbard,_ he thought.  
He padded his way back to Billy’s room, and found him with his back propped on the headboard, his eyes fixed on the outside. Goodnight leaned on the door frame and crossed his arms over his chest.  
“I just realized I don’t have a scrap in the house to eat,” he informed Billy. “Gonna take a trip into town. Pick up some things.”  
Billy looked from the window to Goodnight and nodded. Goodnight thought the invitation for Billy to tell him what he needed was implicit, but nevertheless, Billy remained silent. Goodnight heaved off of the door frame with less grace than he would usually have mustered, before walking over to the side of the bed and setting the water bottle on the nightstand.  
“Anything I can get for you?”  
Billy moved his head from side to side, and it occurred to Goodnight that Jack must have given him a heavy dose of painkillers.  
“Toothbrush?”  
Goodnight smiled.  
“Sure,” he said. “No problem. What do you like to eat?”  
“ ‘m not picky,” Billy said.  
The way Billy’s words were losing their edges told Goodnight it would be fruitless to press for specifics.  
“Alright,” Goodnight said. “Get some rest if you want. I’ll be back after 'while.”  
Billy nodded and made a noise in the back of this throat. Goodnight accepted that as a farewell. On his way out of the room he debated whether to leave the door open or closed. With a backward glance, he elected to leave it open.  
His trip into town had taken far longer than he would have preferred. But then, perhaps that was the axiom of “trips into town.”  
By the time Goodnight returned night had fallen, and the rain continued to patter on every surface. He hauled the groceries in from the garage and put them away. In the back of his mind, he decided to make chicken for dinner. After that, he took the clothing and toiletries to Billy’s room. On his way there, his steps were a little quicker than usual; it was born of a terrible certainty that Billy would no longer be there, that the house would be empty again.   
His worry was ill-founded, though. Billy was asleep on the bed. Goodnight arranged the plethora of personal grooming tools in the adjoining restroom, then settled the sets of clothing on the chair. Nothing fancy. Athletic clothing that would fit comfortably, if loosely, and some boxers he hoped would fit well enough. Some hair ties, too. When Billy didn’t stir, Goodnight returned to the kitchen to prepare dinner.  
By the time Goodnight pushed his plate away, Billy wandered, barefoot, into the kitchen. He was wearing black shorts and a gray tee shirt. His hair was bound back.  
“Hey,” Goodnight said as he stood and reevaluated the meal’s distinct lack of starch.  
“Have a seat. Chicken and asparagus alright?”  
Billy nodded.  
“Thank you,” he said as he took the seat opposite Goodnight.  
Goodnight cooked. Billy ate.  
The moon, waned, and the pair established their own patterns.  
Goodnight had told Billy that, while there were several books in the cellar he’d prefer no one tampered with, he had free run of the house. Despite this, Billy seemed to limit his movements to his bedroom, the kitchen, or wherever Goodnight happened to be. The things they shared with each were either entirely mundane, or supernatural in nature.  
There didn’t seem to be any in between.  
Goodnight usually worked from home, and his maid generally came to clean on Tuesdays. Once upon a time, Goodnight had had a knack for summoning demons, and other ethereal beings. Billy had had a government job in South Korea until a few years ago, when he was bitten by a werewolf while on a job. Goodnight enjoyed literature, and he knew how to inflict curses on people. (He never had, though, despite several temptations.) Billy had no family to speak of, and he had taught himself to reign in his transformations if he needed to on the nights when the moon was fullest; although being able to run wild was preferable.

* * *

 

Sam returned a week later. The three men sat in Goodnight’s kitchen over coffee. Sam asked questions about names, places and dates; and Billy answered as concisely as he could. Strictly facts. Nothing personal. Billy had no way of knowing the relevance of the information he held, but every time he said something of import, Goodnight could see the impact of it on Sam’s face. Sam would cease writing, look up and confirm the information before writing it down while nodding to himself. The gears were turning. Something steely and determined had renewed itself in Sam.  
“Be careful, Sam,” Goodnight advised as he walked him to his car.  
The words felt unnecessary. Sam was always careful. And if anyone had anything to worry about, it was the man Sam was going after. The man who made him what he was. Goodnight doubted there was anyone more deserving of Sam Chisolm’s wrath than Bart Bogue.  
Sam nodded as he leaned against the driver’s side door of his black jeep. At least he had the good grace not to pretend he didn’t know what Goodnight meant. Goodnight was certainly not dumb enough to try to talk Sam out of whatever this new direction was.  
Both stood in silence as ghosts from their pasts crept into the early evening light.  
Goodnight thought about offering his help, but the off chance that Sam would accept made him wary enough to remain silent.  
“This is lucky,” Sam said after a while. “Billy’s lucky.”  
It was true. Captivity and injuries notwithstanding, worse things could have happened to him. From what Goodnight had heard, werewolf pelts had a high value on the very blackest markets. The thought made his stomach turn, but perhaps that was Sam’s impetus for saying as much. Sam’s reason for hunting down Bogue were his own. That it would likely benefit the greater good was almost purely coincidental, and Goodnight wondered who Sam was trying to convince of that.  
“Lucky,” Goodnight echoed with a nod as he slid his hands into his pockets.  
_Well, luck and extortion,_ Goodnight amended. There was little, if anything, Sam ever did that was reliant on luck.  
Sam’s eyes narrowed at him, as though some of his meaning had escaped Goodnight.  
“Thank him again for me, Goody,” Sam said as he opened his vehicle door.  
“Will do.”  
Sam clapped him on the shoulder and smiled before getting into the jeep.  
_Be careful,_ Goodnight thought.  
Goodnight waved, and watched as Sam pulled away. As he walked back into the house he remembered how interminable the ride up the driveway had felt when they had brought Billy to his house.  
Goodnight found Billy sitting in the den. He’d opted for one of the black, leather recliners; and while Billy wasn’t reclining, Goodnight was no less pleased to see that his insistence Billy make himself at home was beginning to pay off.  
Goodnight eased down into the matching seat across from Billy, and traced his fingertips over the supple texture of the armrests.  
“Sam said ‘thank you,’ again.”  
A tiniest dip of Billy’s chin was the only indication that he’d heard Goodnight, and the silence that settled between them set Goodnight on edge.  
“Penny for your thoughts?”  
Some sort of dull humor clicked in the back of Goodnight’s mind. Offering a penny for someone’s two cents. Not exactly a fair trade where hypothetical, monetary amounts were concerned, he supposed. Billy, it seemed, would concur with that assessment. He looked at Goodnight, perhaps considering his words and the gravity of whatever sentiment they held.  
Billy shrugged.  
“I can leave tomorrow,” he said, without meeting Goodnight’s eyes.  
“Oh.”  
Goodnight scarcely recognized the strangled word as being in his own voice, and the welling of emotion he felt at Billy’s declaration made breathing a difficult prospect. He cursed himself for a sentimental idiot. It hadn’t occurred to him that Billy might view Sam’s visit as a conclusion to their business. And the thing that Goodnight could confess only to himself? How Billy’s presence had seemed to banish thoughts of the thing that had scarred him? That thing with the face and talons of an owl. He drew his hand up and dragged his thumb along his jaw, and through his beard, wondering how to convince Billy to stay. Billy hadn’t given Goodnight the impression he had a life left to get back to. And hadn’t they been enjoying each other’s company? Had he imagined the fondness that had settled so naturally between them?  
He doubted he was above begging, but in order to save some of his own pride, Goodnight settled for the truth.  
“Not as though you’ve been an imposition,” he said. “I...enjoy having you here. I’d like you to stay. If you want to stay, that is.”  
Billy stared down at the coffee table as his right thumb worried the undersides of his fingers. He was otherwise still. Goodnight’s heart sank lower with each passing second. He reminded himself that he was asking for an admission of sentimentality, and Billy was someone for whom that sort of thing did not seem to come easily.  
_I can protect you,_ Goodnight’s mind scrambled, even as it cautioned patience and pushed aside his self-doubt. _I can help you._  
Billy set his hands on the armrests.  
“I’ll stay, then,” he said. He leaned back into the chair, and lifted an eyebrow, as if he were asking Goodnight if he was certain.  
The sigh Goodnight let out was far from dignified, but he didn’t care.  
“Alright, then,” he said.  
They sat in giddy silence.  
“Goody,” Billy said, after a few minutes.  
It wasn’t just a means of gaining Goodnight’s attention, and there was no interrogative tone attached to the diminutive Sam had introduced. Billy was trying it out, taking another step toward familiarity.  
Goodnight realized his face was beginning to smart from smiling.

* * *

 

Just after midnight, Billy and Goodnight stepped out of Rose Creek’s best (and, to be fair, only) bar and grille. The moon was suspended, jewel like, in the blackness. It was growing rounder, and looked less like something jagged, and dangerous.  
Lovely, Goodnight thought as he stared upward and opened his mouth to say something to Billy, who was hanging several paces back.  
He, too looked up at the waxing moon, but he was clearly not as charmed by the sight as Goodnight. Goodnight could see that Billy’s teeth were working over the insides of his cheeks.  
“Hey,” Goodnight said as he closed the distance between them. “You good?”  
“Yeah.”  
_Bullshit,_ Goodnight thought as Billy took half a step back.  
Goodnight stopped.  
“Alright,” Goodnight said as he flashed Billy a smile to let him know that it really was.  
The silvery beams looked too bright now, and Goodnight tilted his head in the direction of his car. Billy fell into stride beside him and Goodnight wondered if, as the moon became larger, sliver by silvery sliver, Billy would seem farther and farther.  
They found their way to Goodnight’s sedan. It was dark gray, and as sleek as it was sensible. They got in and shut the doors. Goodnight twisted the key in the ignition, but made no move to pull away from the parking space.  
“When you wanna have that talk... _if_ you wanna have that talk,” Goodnight said. “I’ll listen.”  
His voice matched the calm, warm timbre of the night he’d held Billy in the back of Sam’s jeep, asking him to stay with him, and assuring him everything would be fine.  
The only reply Billy gave was a nod. Goodnight cleared his throat, shifted the car into reverse, and made no mention of the way Billy’s jaw clenched as he stared out the window.  
That ride home was silent.

* * *

  
There wasn’t a talk. There were, however, small intimations at insecurities. Each night, Billy seemed to greet the rising of the moon with agitation that masqueraded as impatience. Goodnight saw it in the way Billy moved his hands, and in the way Billy wasn’t content to stay in one place very long. Billy also seemed to be retiring to his room later, and later. Goodnight hadn’t thought much of it until dark circles began to etch themselves under Billy’s eyes. Goodnight wondered -as he did with many things were Billy was concerned -if it was typical of lycanthropy. He wondered if he should offer Billy something to help him sleep, and entertained thoughts of asking Jack for advice. He invariably decided against it, though, hoping that Billy would confide in him.  
_Fair enough,_ Goodnight thought. _It’s not like you don’t have your share of demons you haven’t told him about._  
The pair stood on the back porch as the sun dipped below the treeline. Goodnight nursed a mug of tea and watched Billy watch the horizon as it slowly changed shades. Crispness was making its way into the air, but Goodnight sat himself down on the top step. Billy continued to lean on the railing for a few more minutes before sitting beside Goodnight, leaving only a hair’s breadth of space between them. There were only a few nights remaining before the moon could prompt a change in Billy, and there was much that had gone unsaid about what that would entail.  
Goodnight’s eyes traced over the back yard. It blended into an expansive field, which ended at a distant treeline. His property extended far beyond that.  
“Lots of room to run, “ he ventured.  
Billy nodded, but the corners of his mouth tugged downward. Goodnight wanted to put an arm over Billy’s shoulders, but he was uncertain whether or not it would be a welcome gesture.  
“The last time I changed...” Billy began. His eyes were unblinking, and he paused for so long that Goodnight was afraid the thought would be left incomplete. “That’s when I got caught.”  
Something fell into place for Goodnight.  
“Then, at the party…” Goodnight said, as he remembered the the way Billy had moved his head from side to side. The clarity of that memory made Goodnight’s heart go out to Billy.  
Billy had been captured, sold, and then forced to transform, and kill. It was no surprise his misgivings compounded themselves every night. Goodnight understood all too well what it was like to be undone, and unable to trust oneself; then left to wonder what vestiges of your former control remained.  
_I get it,_ he wanted to say. _I really, really do._  
“I can help,” he said. “I think.”  
Billy looked at him. His features lacked hope, but neither were they colored with outright doubt. Billy lifted a brow with what was finely honed cynicism, but Goodnight chose to interpret it as curiosity, and therefore an invitation to expound on his idea.

The next day, they seldom broke company. Goodnight explained that he was creating an enchantment akin to the one that had held Billy and the other werewolf. When Billy outwardly balked at that description, Goodnight told him that the intention of the magic would be quite the opposite. It would keep unwanted individuals out, and Billy -whichever form he was in -would be free to come and go as he pleased. They spent much of the morning in the basement, in Goodnight’s workshop. Goodnight hadn’t ventured there in at least several months, but the many things that had been daunting about the simple act of opening the cellar door had been almost forgotten with Billy at his side.  
As he created four fetishes, he prattled on about their ingredients, manipulation of unseen energies, and how they would strongly dissuade anyone who meant them harm from entering his property. Once in a while he’d pause, certain he had bored Billy to death. (Magic, after all, could be much more mundane, and time-consuming that people might reasonably assume.) But Billy listened, and even smiled here and there. Goodnight thought that maybe there was solace in the knowledge that there was order and logic to what many would consider nonexistent, or explainable.  
_Or crazy,_ he thought.  
Once the fetishes were completed, Goodnight and Billy planted one at each of the four corners of the land he owned.This proved to be the biggest undertaking of their project. It required a map, the use of the car, and -in the case of the westernmost point on the property -hiking.  
“You alright?” Goodnight would ask as he motioned to his own shoulder to indicate he was asking Billy about his wounds.  
Billy would affirm that he was, and moreover, his wounds had healed and there was no reason for concern. If Goodnight seemed winded, Billy would return the question, and Goodnight would laugh and say that he was no longer a Spring chicken, and that it had been quite a while since he’d enjoyed the great outdoors.  
Goodnight spoke, at length, about hunting trips with his grandpa, and how the old man had extolled Goodnight for his virtues with firearms. With smiles belonging solely to the past, Goodnight would occasionally point in the directions of significant successes. The first deer he ever shot. The first time he missed. His biggest trophy.  
“You know, I think my pawpaw would have been surprised how my life turned out,” he said as he wrapped his knuckles on the pale trunk of a birch.  
“Mine, too,” Billy said.  
They both chuckled at that. The chuckle boiled over into genuine laughter that had both Goodnight and Billy greedily pulling air into their lungs.  
Afterward, they continued on their way. All the while, Goodnight admired the grace in each of Billy’s steps. His feet stepped over branches, and never turned over a rock. Goodnight wondered how much of that elegance Billy owed to the more predatory half of his nature, but something told him that that had been a part of Billy long before he’d been bitten.  
That night, the two went to dinner before retiring early.  
The next day felt like a charade as they both went about their business, and tried their level best to avoid any subject that touched upon moons, shapeshifting, or magic. Goodnight vacillated between misguided bids at productivity and failed attempts at relaxation. It didn’t appear as though Billy was making any pretense at tranquility. Goodnight watched as Billy scrutinized the contents of his bookshelves, picked at food, flipped through TV channels, and pretended he wasn’t as unnerved as his behavior suggested. Far be it from Goodnight to question it. He could only make himself accessible on the off chance Billy did need something.  
The minutes and hours dragged; but when the sun began to sink, the day sped to its conclusion with the sudden, harrowing momentum that precedes calamity.  
Neither of them had bothered with dinner, yet they sat in the kitchen. The space was soundless until Billy’s chair creaked when he rose.  
“Time, then?” Goodnight asked, not knowing what else to say.  
“Mmm hmm,” Billy said with a nod as he walked to the door.  
He paused with his hand on the doorknob. He looked back at Goodnight, opened his mouth, and drew in a breath. Whatever he was, or was not going to say, he kept to himself. With another little nod, Billy disappeared out the door, and into the amber twilight.  
Time lurched to a crawl once more, and Goodnight spent his night much the way Billy had spent his day.  
“You are one sad sonofabitch,” Goodnight muttered into the emptiness as he sat down on his piano’s bench.  
_This should not be this difficult,_ he thought.  
By the fifth time Goodnight tried to play his way through one of the first sonatas he'd ever learned, he decided he had no other recourse but to go to bed. The same note derailed his private concert each time. He struck the appropriate key with far more force than was necessary, before he stood and wandered to his room.  
He sank down onto his mattress, but neglected to pull a cover over himself. He laced his fingers over his middle, then tucked them behind his head. He moved one back to his stomach. He lost track of the succession of his movements, and he began to drift. Whether it had been minutes or hours, he could not have said. As sleep took him, he thought he heard a wolf howling.  
When he dreamed, he dreamed of a living shadow with eyes that gleamed like precious metal.

Running water woke Goodnight. The sky was still gray, but no water issued from it. Had he left something on?  
Realization was close on the heels of consciousness, though; and Goodnight made a hasty journey to the kitchen after brushing his teeth.

Goodnight brewed coffee and waited for Billy. He poured the coffee into his favorite mug. He could not recall when it had come into his possession. It was a simple mug with a chip to the right of the handle. It held the ideal amount of coffee or tea for Goodnight’s sensibilities...and what was he going to put in that coffee? He grimaced at the black liquid. Cream? Sugar? Both?  
Neither?  
Goodnight had never truly settled on a preference. He set out the mug Billy used most frequently, and he smiled at the fact Billy reliably took his coffee black. He rested the small of his back on the counter as Billy materialized in the entrance to the kitchen. Goodnight wondered dumbly when the shower had been shut off.  
“Mornin’,” Goodnight said as he punctuated his greeting by raising his mug.  
“Get you some coffee?” he asked as he filled Billy’s mug without waiting on a reply.  
Billy moved to within a few feet of where Goodnight stood, and rested the fingertips of his left hand on the back of a chair. His feet were bare, and he wore black athletic shorts and a white tee shirt. Billy’s hair was tied back. His body had been reshaped in such a way that he seemed to lack tension.  
But his eyes?  
_Resolved._  
The word leapt, unbidden, into his mind. It wasn’t an unfair descriptor, though, Goodnight realized. Billy’s eyes were not the glowing, predatory gold he’d dreamed about. Rather, they were focused, thoughtful; dark and knowing.  
With smooth, silent motion, Billy closed the distance between them. His hands found their way to the mug Goodnight offered, and his lips pressed up, into Goodnight's. Goodnight let go of Billy’s mug, and jolted his own mug out of the way, spilling some of its contents as he moved it back, over the counter. Billy set his own cup aside and cradled Goodnight’s jawline with his left hand, and did the same with his right before moving it behind his neck. When Billy’s tongue slipped between his lips, Goodnight dropped the mug the small, remaining distance to the counter. It likely gained another chip, but as Goodnight registered the pressure of Billy’s lips, and the way his fresh, clean scent mixed with that of the coffee, he could not have cared less if the entire thing had shattered.  
Goodnight remembered himself, remembered how he’d hoped for this.  
He rose to his full height, and met Billy with equal force and sincerity. Billy was warm. His lips were pliant, and his body unbudging. Goodnight’s hand moved to Billy’s left side, but the second his fingertips brushed the fabric of Billy’s shirt, he pulled his hand away. Billy’s wounds had healed, but Goodnight remembered their infliction; and he would not have forgiven himself if he caused Billy any pain.  
Billy’s affections became less insistent as he caught Goodnight’s hand in his own. He guided it back to his side, so the flat of Goodnight’s palm rested there. Goodnight brushed his thumb back and forth in soft, experimental motions. He lifted his other hand and let his fingertips trace over Billy’s jawline, and beneath his ear before resting it on the nape of Billy’s neck. Goodnight thrilled at the feel of his still-damp hair. Billy allowed himself to be pulled closer, and to be kissed more deeply. They spent time taking in the smell, taste and feel of one another.  
It was rare -so rare -that reality surpassed expectation.  
The kiss broke when Billy released Goodnight’s bottom lip from between his own. He rested his forehead on the bridge of Goodnight’s nose and filled his lungs. Goodnight halted the words that welled up in his mind. He wanted to tell Billy how he’d been wanting that, and how good it was to feel his body against own.  
“It’s just coffee,” he said before Billy renewed their connection in that newly intimate way.  
Billy’s mouth formed a smile against Goodnights, and for the first time in a long time, Goodnight felt like he was home.


End file.
